motioned towards the nightstand (a black HEMNES piece). “Check it out.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer. I found eight or so yellowing letters, wrapped in a bit of old Christmas ribbon. I glanced at the first. It was dated December 28, 1962. I recognized Mother’s angular handwriting.
“She told me about these,” I said. “She wrote them after they started... dating, when her parents took her to Florida for Christmas vacation.”
I glanced at the top letter. I love you , she had written. I ache for you, for the feel of your tender hands in delicate places. I want to wrap myself up in your strong arms and once again... well, it went on from there. I felt that same squicky feeling I had felt on the drive down. You’re just not supposed to think about your mother having those kinds of thoughts and feelings, even though it’s the only reason any of us are ever born.
Paper that old should be crinkly and stiff , I thought, but this wasn’t. These letters had been folded and unfolded, read and reread. I had no idea how many times Sheldon had picked up each of these letters, taking the time to underline every single one of the passages that read “I love you” in red ink.
“I just glanced at them, you know,” Adam said. “They are kind of... I guess passionate is the right word.”
“They’re alive,” I said. “Or they were alive to him.”
“I never thought about Uncle Sheldon being passionate. I mean, he was just this guy who would show up every other Christmas and give me weird presents.” Adam sat down next to me, the two of us together on the bed. “It feels wrong, somehow, to think of him of being young, and in love.”
I glanced at Adam, sitting next to me, in a friendly way, not even very intimate. But I heard a sadness in his voice, and it wasn’t just grief for his departed uncle. I didn’t know anything about Adam, but it sounded to me as though he was lonely. If so, it was the one thing we had in common—a void in our lives, a lack of not just togetherness but passion. And there we were, sitting together, with an opportunity to reach towards each other, and neither of us wanting to make the first move.
“Of course, I bet you feel the same way,” he said.
“Oh, I do,” I said. I hoped that my voice had just the right husky intensity.
“I mean, you don’t think about your mom that way, I bet.”
“I’m not thinking about her at all, just now.” He turned his head, just a little. It would be no effort at all just to kiss him, I thought, just to press my lips against his, just to unbutton that first button on his shirt. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“Well, a couple of things,” he said.
I was thinking of a couple of things, too. I was thinking that my mother was right, that having a passionate desire in your heart was what living was all about. I was thinking about Adam’s body, warm and naked against mine. I was thinking about his hands caressing me, exploring me, right there on that bed.
“I’m thinking I have to get to the FedEx store in Sea Isle City before it closes,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, because you can’t say things like that is the single absolute least romantic thing I have ever heard anyone say in my whole entire life up until right this minute.
”I mean, I want to make sure the urn gets to Alaska in one piece. I can’t just leave it in a drop box.”
When I heard that word, that short little word urn, a billion little hormone molecules that had been racing around my bloodstream died a quick, short, sudden death. “ Urn ,” I said, “as in ashes?”
“Well, yeah. I meant to drop it off before the funeral, but I was running late and I didn’t have time. The closest FedEx location is in Sea Isle City, and I need to finish getting packed here and drive it up there before they close.”
I touched the little silver cross pendant I was wearing. I felt the muscles of my chest tighten, just a bit, and then
I sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer. I found eight or so yellowing letters, wrapped in a bit of old Christmas ribbon. I glanced at the first. It was dated December 28, 1962. I recognized Mother’s angular handwriting.
“She told me about these,” I said. “She wrote them after they started... dating, when her parents took her to Florida for Christmas vacation.”
I glanced at the top letter. I love you , she had written. I ache for you, for the feel of your tender hands in delicate places. I want to wrap myself up in your strong arms and once again... well, it went on from there. I felt that same squicky feeling I had felt on the drive down. You’re just not supposed to think about your mother having those kinds of thoughts and feelings, even though it’s the only reason any of us are ever born.
Paper that old should be crinkly and stiff , I thought, but this wasn’t. These letters had been folded and unfolded, read and reread. I had no idea how many times Sheldon had picked up each of these letters, taking the time to underline every single one of the passages that read “I love you” in red ink.
“I just glanced at them, you know,” Adam said. “They are kind of... I guess passionate is the right word.”
“They’re alive,” I said. “Or they were alive to him.”
“I never thought about Uncle Sheldon being passionate. I mean, he was just this guy who would show up every other Christmas and give me weird presents.” Adam sat down next to me, the two of us together on the bed. “It feels wrong, somehow, to think of him of being young, and in love.”
I glanced at Adam, sitting next to me, in a friendly way, not even very intimate. But I heard a sadness in his voice, and it wasn’t just grief for his departed uncle. I didn’t know anything about Adam, but it sounded to me as though he was lonely. If so, it was the one thing we had in common—a void in our lives, a lack of not just togetherness but passion. And there we were, sitting together, with an opportunity to reach towards each other, and neither of us wanting to make the first move.
“Of course, I bet you feel the same way,” he said.
“Oh, I do,” I said. I hoped that my voice had just the right husky intensity.
“I mean, you don’t think about your mom that way, I bet.”
“I’m not thinking about her at all, just now.” He turned his head, just a little. It would be no effort at all just to kiss him, I thought, just to press my lips against his, just to unbutton that first button on his shirt. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“Well, a couple of things,” he said.
I was thinking of a couple of things, too. I was thinking that my mother was right, that having a passionate desire in your heart was what living was all about. I was thinking about Adam’s body, warm and naked against mine. I was thinking about his hands caressing me, exploring me, right there on that bed.
“I’m thinking I have to get to the FedEx store in Sea Isle City before it closes,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, because you can’t say things like that is the single absolute least romantic thing I have ever heard anyone say in my whole entire life up until right this minute.
”I mean, I want to make sure the urn gets to Alaska in one piece. I can’t just leave it in a drop box.”
When I heard that word, that short little word urn, a billion little hormone molecules that had been racing around my bloodstream died a quick, short, sudden death. “ Urn ,” I said, “as in ashes?”
“Well, yeah. I meant to drop it off before the funeral, but I was running late and I didn’t have time. The closest FedEx location is in Sea Isle City, and I need to finish getting packed here and drive it up there before they close.”
I touched the little silver cross pendant I was wearing. I felt the muscles of my chest tighten, just a bit, and then
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